


Bird of Paradise

by pearypie



Series: the swinging sixties [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 1960s, M/M, Phone Sex, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: *Sequel to Chelsea Hotel No. 2*It's been three weeks since Ciel left for Princeton and shit, he really can't stop thinking about that smug faced, sinfully fuckable bastard, Sebastian Michaelis.Rated M for phone sex.





	Bird of Paradise

_I'm Forty-One, the moon is full,/ you make love very well./ You touch me like I touch myself...You're so fresh and you're so new,/ There's nothing I would rather do/ than move around just like this._ \- Leonard Cohen, 'Do I Have to Dance All Night' 

 

* * *

 

Ciel hates the damn bastard and doesn’t care if he dies. Preferably a slow and painful death. Who the fuck did he think he was anyway? He angrily turns a wilted white page in his textbook, conscious of the various graduate students surrounding him in Princeton’s Firestone Library. Sieglinde was right.

This library was too fucking crowded.

But who the fuck cares, Ciel fumes, jotting down a few notes that mean shit before finally giving up and closing his textbook altogether. Fuck it. He doesn’t need to be here until tomorrow and right now, he’s itching for a smoke and if he’s here too long he’ll end up setting the whole fucking building on fire. Really, he can’t explain _why_ he’s so upset only that he _is._

Ciel shoves his notebook, two textbooks, pen, and lighter into his briefcase before walking down the glossy onyx hallway and exiting the damn building with a satisfying slam of the door. It’s October in Princeton and everything is golden—autumn is upon them, red-gold leaves and crisp apple cider air. There are tall, strong oak trees he can see for miles and miles, tidy campus lawns and polished, multistory buildings that his father no doubt helped fund.

There’s also a distinct lack of angry yellow cabs, busybody businessmen in flannel suits and distinct grey hats; he can’t hear honks or yells or smell the putrid scent of motor oil, greasy hot dogs, and women’s hairspray. In short, it’s not New York City and _fuck,_ he’s pissed off about that too. He’s been an absolute bitch ever since summer break but really, he was just fine until early September—before that fucker decided to put his mouth all over him and—

Fuck it.

Ciel’s still standing on the library’s front steps but _hey,_ it’s outside and that’s good enough. He pulls a pack of Lucky’s from his back pocket and briefly fumbles with the lighter before he’s able to inhale the pearly-smoke taste of nicotine. He closes his eyes, exhaling the plumes of smoke from his nose before his heartbeat returns to a normal pace and he longer feels like punching a hole through someone’s skull.

Preferably _his._

Tucking the cigs and lighter in his pocket, Ciel makes his way to the campus cafe—the little hole in the wall coffee shop that Lizzy took him to last week even though she didn’t even _go_ to Princeton. She always managed to find the cutest little things _everywhere_ so Ciel indulged her and took her to coffee and bitched to her about Sebastian _fucking_ Michaelis because he was an annoying bastard who somehow consumed his thoughts day and night.

Every waking hour Ciel was reminded of that smug bastard and every night he shut his eyes he swore he could still smell the smoky, scotch stained scent of the enigmatic Chelsea Hotel writer. He knows he’s not hallucinating because Ciel doesn’t even _like_ scotch—no, he hates the stuff and never keeps it around. And Soma’s too pure to ever touch a drop of alcohol so Ciel knows he isn’t keeping bottles of that shit around.

Maybe he’s going crazy—maybe _that’s_ the explanation to all this. After all, it’s so much more rational than what Lizzy proposed.

It was outrageous and implausible and maybe she should rethink her career in politics because there was no fucking way in _hell_ he was “in love” with that scotch drinking bastard Michaelis.

 

* * *

 

“It’s so obvious Ciel,” Lizzy observed as he sat there scowling, “that night meant something to you and now, you need closure. You have to see him again.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.” Ciel hissed, taking a mouthful of hot tea before wincing. “I don’t need to do anything or see anyone. He was just good in bed, that’s all.”

“Just in bed?” Lizzy teased smilingly. “You sure that was the extent of his capabilities? If so, I’m disappointed—wall sex is amazing.”

“Lizzy—“

“He sounds like he had a talented mouth too—and a whole _lot_ of stamina.”

“Lizzy! For fuck’s sake—“

“Sorry, sorry.” She apologized, not sounding the least bit sorry as she fiddled with the rim of her teacup. “But I stand by what I said. I don’t know what happened between you two but it’s obvious you’re angry and you feel hurt—don’t you dare dispute me on this. You tend to bottle everything in, grow super irritable, and then lash out at the next person you see who, by the way, won’t be me because I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

“Gee, thanks.” Ciel rolled his eyes. “So what? I’m not _hurt,_ I’m just horny and there’s no one good looking around campus.”

“So go to a bar—take the train into the city, fly out to Paris. The Ciel I know wouldn’t let something so simple as _geography_ get in between him and good sex. Admit it,” Lizzy collected her things, “you miss him.”

“Bullshit.”

She glanced down at him, a mixture of amused and disappointed. “You know, this stubborn-as-a-mule act was cute when you were ten but now, it’s just frustrating.” She stood up. “You keep this up and you’ll end up all alone, baby blue.”

“How can I be alone when you’re behind every corner I look?” He teased because he can’t stand any more of this heart to heart crap.

Lizzy’s not convinced. “Don’t get cute with me, Ciel. I don’t know who Sebastian Michaelis is personally but his books are amazing and he’s not dumb. Give him a chance.”

“He’s 34, Liz.”

“Age is but a number.” She shrugged, collecting her keys in one hand and her purse in the other. “My fiancé’s ten years older than me.”

“Charles Grey is the fucking heir to an earldom—Aunt Francis would’ve let you marry him even if he was a hundred and two.”

“Oh, so you want to _marry_ Sebastian? Ciel, honey, that’s moving a little too fast.” Lizzy laughed.

“I don’t want to marry him, I don’t even _like_ him.”

“Sure you don’t.” Lizzy smiled cheerfully, handing a small scrap of paper to him. “And even though you’re an untruthful brat, I’m still gonna give you a present. Because I love you—and because you’re in denial. Bye Ciel.” She gave him a wave and left, leaving him more annoyed and less confused than when he entered.

Michaelis was a _fling_ —just that. No more, no less.

Reaching over the table, Ciel plucked the piece of paper up and unfolded it. He didn’t know what Lizzy was thinking but he _wasn’t_ in love with _anybody_ or _anything._ Except maybe his dad’s 1967 Jaguar.

In any case, it didn’t matter, he decided, because Lizzy didn’t know what she was talking about and he _wasn’t_ in denial and—holy fucking shit. Ciel blinked once, twice…but the numbers remained the same. 

_S. Michaelis’s phone number. Had a hell of a time tracking it down. Don’t mess this up. x, Lizzy_

 

* * *

 

So he’s had that stupid scrap of paper tucked behind a scrapbook in his top desk drawer but it didn’t mean _anything._ In fact, Sebastian moved residencies so often Ciel wasn’t even sure if this was the right number anymore. Fuck, someone needed to invent portable telephones in the near future.

Taking another sip of clear vodka, Ciel glanced at the clock. It’s 9 PM (fucking early) but really, he could wait until later. After all, Soma was in California visiting his…sixth or seventh sister (Ciel lost track after the first three) and the apartment they shared was more like a penthouse. It paid to be sons of the rich and famous.

He took another drink, letting the vodka burn down his throat and warm him up, inside out. He wanted his judgement clouded—wanted to be able to blame all this on the liquor when morning came. As soon as the sun rose, he’d be able to blacklist this incident but for now (Ciel took another drink, already feeling somewhat lightheaded) he was 17 and—what was that phrase? _Carpe diem._

He was gonna carpe that fucking diem because shit, he’s 17 and he’s drunk and that makes it okay.

So fuck it.

 

* * *

 

“Michaelis.”

 _Holy shit, the number worked._ Ciel’s stunned. Never in a million years did he actually think the number would go _through._ Fuck. What was he supposed to say? _Hi, I’m the guy you fucked three weeks ago at the Chelsea?_

No. Ciel exhaled, reaching for his vodka, he needed to play this cool—apathetic—he would _not_ allow Sebastian Michaelis to get the upper hand.

Damn bastard.

He took a sip. “I’m impressed,” Ciel drawled, “it’s 10 PM and you’re still sober.”

There’s a pause, and then—

“Ciel Phantomhive.” Sebastian chuckled, sounding more amused than surprised. “What an opening line.” As he says this, Ciel can just picture the plumes of smoke escaping his lips as he lights another Marlboro. He’s probably standing in front of those huge glass windows, watching the city skyline and inky black sky, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.

“Yeah, that’s what Princeton taught me. Three weeks here and I’m a semi-decent conversationalist. How’s _that_ for top tier.”

“Mmh, it does inspire admiration, doesn’t it?”

“Rhetorical.”

“You’re catching onto my ways rather quick. Keep this up and I’ll be all out of tricks.” 

Ciel played with the glass tumbler in hand, pressing himself further into his armchair. His unease is dissipating and really, he’s forgotten how easy it was to talk to his no-good bastard.

“What was that old saying? You can’t teach a dead dog new tricks?”

Something like laughter sounds on the other end of the line and Ciel feels weirdly proud at having evoked it.

“You’re in a rather macabre mood this evening.” He mused. “No rest for the wicked?”

“You’re one to talk.” Ciel uncrossed his legs.

“Perhaps I am.” There’s another brief pause. “You’re not sitting naked on a leather armchair are you?”

“Wha—no!” Ciel immediately polishes off the rest of the vodka in his glass. “Fuck you, pervert.”

“It was an objective question.”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Gladly.” He hears rustling on the other end.

_Is he…?_

“Are you fucking undressing?”

“Yes.” Is the calm, collected answer Ciel receives.

“Fine. I’m hanging up now.”

Sebastian chuckled and Ciel hears something else—was he pouring himself a glass of scotch? “I’ve got an early deadline to make.”

His voice is bland—uncaring—but it still sends a wave of unwarranted spite (Ciel refuses to identify it as jealousy) crashing over him. “With who?”

“Bobby Daniels, my publisher.”

_Oh._

“What’re you writing?”

“The better question would be, what have I _written._ ”

“Don’t try that with me—you can’t beat me in pretentiousness. I go to fucking Princeton and my roommate wears a sweater vest.”

More rustling on the other line—was he getting into bed? That large, rectangular king sized bed with soft cotton sheets and a headboard that rattled against the wall ever time Sebastian drove into him?

“I’ll mail you a copy of the book.” Is Sebastian’s halfway amused answer. “Send me an address or some lucky English major will be getting a free copy.”

“Yeah, yeah—you’re a starving artist and I need to pay your rent.”

At that statement, Sebastian laughed again. (Was this the third time?) “You’re quite amusing for a 10 PM phone call.”

 _Phone call._ Right. Ciel kicked himself. This was all it was—a _phone call._

“You know, for the past half hour I’ve just been imagining your milky white thighs wrapped around my waist while I fucked you senseless against the wall.” Sebastian announced conversationally as Ciel froze, briefly wondering if he’d heard him right.

“Is that so?” He can feel himself growing hard and god, it would be so embarrassing if—

“Mmh, indeed. You’re calling my name—just as you did last time and those arms of yours are wrapped around my neck, your fingers tugging at my hair while you push me to go _faster—harder._ How you’re a greedy little thing who wants _more, more, more._ And really,” Sebastian’s voice lowered to a whisper, “I’m quite inclined to give it to you.”

Ciel’s right hand twitches as he lowers it on his lap, moving it up his thigh before he realized he was _stroking_ himself—he was fucking _touching_ himself and wasn’t this just the biggest cliche of all?

Phone sex at ten thirty at night.

“I’m pushing into you again and you smell just like you did last time—like dark chocolate, light cigarette smoke, and the icy caress of winter. It’d be easy to take you in a few more strokes, you’re already so close—I can feel your hard cock pressing into my lower stomach, so I take you in my hand and force you to meet my eyes. I want to see you lose control, how you say my name with your cock in my hand and me mounted inside you. I lean into you and you cry out for release and really, I’m rather _merciful_ this time so I rub you in my hand and _fuck_ —“ Ciel loves it when he swears “—you’re silky soft and ready to cum.”

“Am I?” Ciel panted, because yeah, he was _close._

“You are,” Sebastian’s voice is breathy, “so hard and wanting against my hand, with me still buried inside you.”

“Ugh—Sebastian, fucking—“

“ _Cum._ ”

And Ciel does. Oh he fucking does, it’s such a cliche and Ciel _hates_ cliches but his head’s thrown back and he’s got cum all over his hand but all he can imagine is his flushed, naked body pressed against Sebastian’s wall, moonlight streaming in as they fucked and touched and _loved._

It’s bullshit, really, Ciel thinks as struggles to catch his breath—was he having an asthma attack?—that some fucker in New York could make him react like this.

 

* * *

 

“When does your winter break start?” Sebastian asked after Ciel managed to even his breaths out again.

“December 15th.”

“Fifth Avenue?”

“No.” Ciel remembered with a sliver of disappointment. “We’re going to Ireland. Mom’s family.”

“I see.”

“What about summer?” He’s a writer, writers didn’t have business meetings in Tokyo they had to attend did they?

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I don’t know. July?”

“It depends.” Sebastian answered. “If the book does well, I’ll be on tour until next November.”

“Fucking hell.”

Sebastian laughed—but it sounded colder, less genuine. “Such is the life of a starving artist.”

“Right.”

“How did you get my phone number anyway?”

 _Shit._ Ciel wished he had another glass of vodka around him. _Lie._ His subconscious mind screams at him. _Lie, lie, lie._

“Found it in the phone book.” Ciel replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

He gets a noncommittal answer in return.

“Fucked any glamour queens since I left?”

“No—“

“Bullshit.”

“—I’ve been busy, and it’s almost midnight.”

 _Midnight?_ Ciel squinted, barely making out the white hands of his Victorian clock. Had they been on the phone for two fucking hours? But Ciel ignored that, feeling a strange hint of hurt at what Sebastian was getting at.

_Fine. He has to go? I’ll leave first._

“Yeah, I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” Over the years, he’s practiced the art of sounding completely and utterly detached.

“Mmh-hm.” And Ciel can just picture the bastard lying on his back—naked—with a thin white sheet covering his sinfully delectable body, cigarette in hand and pale smoke clouding the dark bedroom there. “Goodnight Ciel—oh, wait.”

“Yes?” (And he’s _not_ overeager—just curious. That’s all.)

“Your address. I’ve a book to mail you.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

Ciel rolled his eyes. “23 Woodland Drive.”

A faint rustling of paper followed by the heavy click of a fountain pen. “Noted.”

“Yeah, well—goodnight.”

“Yes,” Sebastian mused, “it was.”

 

* * *

 

Four days later, an unbound manuscript entitled _The Chelsea Hotel_ —complete with author’s notes and edits—arrives on his doorstep.

October, he realizes, isn’t half so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is meant to be an interim between Chelsea Hotel No. 2 and Glass Capsule so there's basically no plot LOL


End file.
